


Subtle, But Not Insidious

by sciencefictioness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Praise Kink, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 23:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: It takes a little over a month.Plus six thousand years, give or take.  If Aziraphale had let himself think on it, he would have expected it sooner.  Six thousand years is an awfully long time but the handful of weeks at the end take much longer.There are a lot of things he hasn’t let himself think on, it seems.  They make themselves known all at once, when Aziraphale stumbles upstairs into the flat above his bookshop to find Crowley sleeping.





	Subtle, But Not Insidious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eerieryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eerieryoko/gifts).

It takes a little over a month.

Plus six thousand years, give or take. If Aziraphale had let himself think on it, he would have expected it sooner. Six thousand years is an awfully long time but the handful of weeks at the end take much longer.

There are a lot of things he hasn’t let himself think on, it seems. They make themselves known all at once, when Aziraphale stumbles upstairs into the flat above his bookshop to find Crowley sleeping.

He’s sprawled out on the sofa in Aziraphale’s living room, as only Crowley can truly sprawl— one leg hanging off onto the floor, the other bent at the knee and tilted against the cushions. Crowley is still mostly dressed. His jacket is draped over a chair, and one of his shoes has fallen off. Aziraphale notices those things much later, when his mind is turning the moment over incessantly, refusing to let it go.

Right then, all he can do is stare at Crowley.

At Crowley’s wings.

They’ve manifested around him as he dozes. One is spread wide and laid out over Aziraphale’s coffee table. It’s knocked an empty teacup into the floor, as well as a book Aziraphale knows he didn’t leave out. His left wing is partially crushed underneath him, Crowley’s face pressed up against a mass of feathers. 

They’re impossibly black, in a way most black things can only dream of being. So dark they’re almost blue in the dim light, Crowley’s pale skin contrasted against them, glasses sitting askance on his nose. Aziraphale stares, even if he isn’t sure why.

He’s seen Crowley’s wings dozens of times. Felt them, even— Aziraphale knows how soft they are, like silk under his fingers. The fleeting brush of feathers on his knuckles is seared into his memory, black on white as they dragged against his own for the briefest of seconds. 

Crowley’s hand is up beside his cheek, lips open slightly as he breathes deep and even. Like it’s natural. Like he needs it. 

A demon who’s caused enough chaos to bring down empires, even if it was mostly accidental and decidedly roundabout, and all Aziraphale can think is that he looks young.

Looks  _ vulnerable. _

Aziraphale wants to cover him with a blanket, and slip his glasses off his face.

Aziraphale wants to brush the hair back from his forehead, and sink his fingers into the vivid black of Crowley’s feathers. 

Wants to kiss his temple, and then his mouth.

Aziraphale turns on his heel, goes back downstairs, and decides he doesn’t want anything at all.

-

Freedom is a terrifying thing, when you get right down to it— being able to do what he wants, when he wants, with no one watching. No one to judge. No one to  _ blame.  _ Aziraphale has been keeping a lid on what he wants for millenia. Pretending he didn’t want it. 

Things were simpler when he wasn’t allowed. 

Now Crowley’s falling asleep in his flat with Aziraphale’s books open on his chest. Drinking Aziraphale’s wine, eating Aziraphale’s biscuits. There are plants sitting near the front windows of the shop, shivering when he walks by as though waiting to be scolded. A Queen CD materializes on his bedside table. Crowley swears he didn’t put it there. 

Aziraphale doesn’t have a CD player.

There’s no Gabriel showing up unannounced and no Heaven looking down on him. No paperwork. No head office. 

Now, there’s just the two of them.

Now Crowley’s curled up under Aziraphale’s blankets with smudged eyeliner and black fingernails and Aziraphale never wants him to be anywhere else. 

Six thousand years. He doesn’t have an excuse anymore.

_ My side won’t like that,  _ except Crowley is his side, and if Aziraphale’s being honest?

He’d probably like it very much.

-

After the world doesn’t end, they keep doing the same things as before, except without all the miracles and mischief. 

Without most of the miracles and mischief, anyway. Old habits are hard to break, and what’s the point of being freed of Heaven’s oversight if he can’t enjoy himself?

The two of them eat together often. Crowley always complains about the restaurants Aziraphale chooses until they get there, and then suddenly he’s forgotten about his objections. 

They go sit at the park. The animals don’t seem to have noticed the apocalypse briefly starting then stopping again. The ducks come up, expectant as always and ready to be fed.

They drop by Crowley’s flat to mist his plants. Aziraphale talks very sweetly to them— tells them how well they’re growing, compliments their leaves. Crowley tries to get him to stop, but he doesn’t try hard, or for very long. Aziraphale would like to think they’re doing better now that he comes around to praise them, but he isn’t sure it’s true. 

They tremble less, at least, and that’s something.

It’s not as though they deliberately spend all their time together, but it doesn’t often occur to them to go their separate ways, either. For as long as Aziraphale has known Crowley he’s been pretending he didn’t, keeping him like a secret. 

Like knowing Crowley is something to be ashamed of; the guilt doesn’t hit him all at once. It creeps in slow, works itself into all Aziraphale’s nooks and crannies. It isn’t the only thing.

There is something warmer. Something more. Something that has taken root in him over eons, growing as empires rose and fell, digging itself deeper. Something that flowered at the end of the world.

Subtle, but not insidious; Aziraphale can ignore it. For a while.

So he does. 

For a while.

-

It isn’t his fault, when it happens, even if he’s the one who starts it. 

Crowley brings him flowers. Or, to be more precise, Aziraphale comes back to the shop after ducking out to get some macarons to find a vase full of red chrysanthemums on the coffee table upstairs. When he asks about them Crowley waves him away,  _ won’t take much of a miracle to keep them up, will it? Spot of color in here won’t kill you. Now hand me one of those fancy biscuits. _

Aziraphale hands him the whole box. Watches him pick one out and take a bite, wiping nonexistent crumbs off his mouth afterwards. He’s wearing lipstick again. It smears just a little, the color on his bottom lip staining his skin. Like he’s been punched.

Like he’s been kissed, and Aziraphale suddenly needs a glass of wine.

-

A glass of wine turns into two, then three. Aziraphale would like to blame the faint buzz of alcohol for the emotions twisting through him, except he’s been feeling them for the better part of six millenia, and half a bottle 1961 Bordeaux can hardly be held accountable. 

Crowley’s sitting next to him on the couch, taking up three times as much space as Aziraphale, arms laid over the back and legs thrown wide. There’s a faint smudge of red on his wine glass.

Aziraphale can’t stop watching his mouth. He’s rambling about music again, as he often does when Aziraphale doesn’t bother interrupting. Modern music all sounds sort of the same to Aziraphale. He hasn’t heard a word Crowley’s said for ten minutes now; he’s gesturing with his hands. His long fingers, his painted nails. Crowley’s picked up some jewelry, somewhere, silver rings glinting with gemstones. 

His glasses are sliding down his nose, yellow irises bright as they peek out from behind the lenses. His hair is long, falling in his face.

Crowley hasn’t been this distracting for centuries, except that isn’t true.

Crowley has always been exactly this distracting. Aziraphale just isn’t working so hard not to notice. He lifts his hand to nudge his glasses back into place, and Aziraphale reaches out to stop him, fingers closing around his wrist.

“You don’t have to do that,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley freezes, staring at where Aziraphale is touching him. As though Aziraphale is the snake ready to strike, and not the other way around.

“Don’t have to what now?” Crowley slurs, gone totally still under Aziraphale’s touch. 

Aziraphale is abruptly, vividly aware that Crowley would let him do whatever he likes without protest. He’s watching his hands, waiting expectantly for something.

For anything.

The knowledge coils warm in his stomach, flutters fast behind his ribs. Aziraphale takes Crowley’s glasses, fingertips barely touching the frames, and eases them off his face. 

“You don’t have the wear these when it’s just the two of us,” he says, closing the earpieces and setting them down on the coffee table. Crowley shifts in place, waving one hand dismissively through the air.

“Don’t want to put you off, do I? Know they’re a bit much sometimes.”

Aziraphale lifts his hand again, fingertips on Crowley’s temple. He goes still again, wide eyed and wary.

Leans away a bit, but Aziraphale has been watching Crowley for too long. Knows all his tells, how he gives himself away; he doesn’t want space.

He wants to lean in, instead.

“I think they’re lovely. I always have.”

Since Eden, Aziraphale’s sword hand newly empty, wings outstretched to protect Crowley from the rain. Since just before the flood, Crowley’s empathy for mankind more real and present than anyone in the heavens. Since Golgotha. Since Rome.

Since  _ always.  _ Aziraphale thinks about all the history between them. All the history they’ve left behind— how Crowley has been there without fail, even when his side had forsaken him. Crowley keeping him safe, looking after what’s important to him. Aziraphale thinks of bombs, and books.

Thinks of sacred ground, and how Crowley has powered through time and again, just to get close to him.

“Oh, come off it,” Crowley says, throwing back the rest of his wine. “S’not natural, yeah? You don’t have to bullshit me, angel.” 

He’s trying to feign disinterest, but it isn’t working. His cheeks are flushed, and he can’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

The world falling down around them, and Crowley had stepped in and given them time to breathe, time to plan; all because Aziraphale threatened not to speak to him again.

Crowley saved everyone, but it wasn’t really for them.

It was for Aziraphale.

_ We can run away together,  _ he’d said, but Aziraphale is tired of running from things. Tired of pretending. He lays his palm on Crowley’s jaw, tugging until he turns to face him. Slitted eyes, and tangled hair. His tongue is forked, just a little, even in this body. Aziraphale doesn’t remember noticing, doesn’t remember one specific moment where he became aware. He just knows it is, now.

Knows Crowley, now. Aziraphale holds his gaze, cleaning the smudged lipstick away from the corner of Crowley’s mouth with his thumb.

“They’re lovely,” he says, brushing Crowley’s hair back from his face, letting his fingers sink into the strands. Crowley is barely breathing, his body made of stone.  _ “You’re  _ lovely,” Aziraphale adds, then leans forward and kisses him. 

It isn’t like the casual kisses he used to give people on the cheek in greeting, back when that was more commonplace. It isn’t like the one time on New Year’s Eve when a drunken bar patron grabbed him at midnight and smashed their mouths together.

Aziraphale has never kissed anyone else this way. Never  _ thought  _ about kissing anyone else. He’s thought about this, though— Crowley’s mouth against his. The sounds he might make, the feel of his skin. Crowley doesn’t disappoint. 

He inhales sharply. Crowley is motionless, but only for an instant. When his body catches up with his brain he drops his wine glass onto the floor, hand coming up to hold Aziraphale’s in place against his cheek. His eyes are impossibly wide, then they slam shut, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat that has Aziraphale pressing closer and deepening the kiss. He needs more, needs to taste— Aziraphale has spent his time on earth seeking out delicacies.

It’s only natural he wants Crowley, too.

At the first brush of Aziraphale’s tongue, Crowley startles and jerks back. Far enough to separate their mouths, but they’re breathing the same air. Crowley’s holding Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek, bright yellow irises darting around his face. Searching for something, and Aziraphale doesn’t know what, but he hopes he finds it there.

Wants to be everything Crowley needs. 

Wants to kiss him again.

“Aziraphale,” he says, breathless. The way he says Aziraphale’s name is the closest thing to a prayer that Crowley has uttered since his fall. That’s all he says, though, and Aziraphale rubs his thumb back and forth over Crowley’s cheekbone, trying to coax out more words.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, encouraging. Crowley looks… hurt, somehow, like Aziraphale has wounded him, and he furrows his brows at the sight.

“You can’t mean that. You don’t— I’m not—”

Aziraphale cuts him off, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips to quiet him.

“I  _ do,  _ and you  _ are,  _ and I was a fool not to do this long before now. Maybe not a fool— a coward, perhaps. But it isn’t too late, is it? And there’s no one to answer to, now, besides each other. I love you, Crowley.”

It’s true. Has  _ been  _ true, for a lot longer than Aziraphale has been able to admit it. He hadn’t been deliberately keeping it locked away, but Aziraphale can feel everything spilling out of him, overflowing to fill the space around them with a haze of adoration. Crowley’s eyes go wide again, and he shudders all over like he’s been electrified, chest heaving.

“Angel,” he says. A prayer, again. A promise.

Crowley’s been wearing his love on his sleeve for a while. The fallen can’t feel it like angels can, not so easily. Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley meant to be so obvious, so he did his best to ignore it. It was polite, he thought, pretending Crowley’s feelings for him weren’t so overpowering they staggered him from time to time. So strong he could taste them. Strong enough that he could scent them in the air. It doesn’t seem polite, any longer.

It seems cruel. Seems vicious, in a way Aziraphale didn’t think he was capable of.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, darling,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley whines like he’s wounded when Aziraphale kisses him again. He’s got a hand in Crowley’s hair, and Aziraphale eases his other around Crowley’s back, fingers slipping under his shirt seeking skin. It’s warm, warmer than Aziraphale expects. He slides his palm up Crowley’s spine, and watches him arch, and shiver. Every touch has him breathing harder, creeping further into Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale pulls him the rest of the way, both arms around Crowley’s waist as he coaxes his mouth wider. It’s awkward until Crowley realizes what Aziraphale is trying to do, and then he goes easily, fitting himself in place.

Crowley’s hard, bulge outlined against the thin fabric of his pants, pressing into Aziraphale as they kiss. Aziraphale doesn’t stop, but it’s definitely distracting, Crowley grinding forward against him. It’s not something Aziraphale has ever experienced, on himself or otherwise. Not something he needs.

He doesn’t need to eat, either, and Aziraphale enjoys it all the same.

Enjoys Crowley, all the same. He finds himself getting there, too, Crowley eager in his arms like he can’t get close enough. 

Aziraphale palms him through his clothes, breaking their kiss to nuzzle into Crowley’s neck instead, rubbing the heel of his hand in gentle circles. He presses a kiss to his snake tattoo, and Crowley swears low.

“Would you mind terribly if I put my hands on you?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley groans, fingers tight in Aziraphale’s hair as he bucks forward against the pressure of Aziraphale’s palm.

“You can’t just  _ say things like that,” _ Crowley hisses. Aziraphale keep working his hand in circles, pressing down harder as he waits for permission.

“Well if I can’t  _ say  _ them, I certainly can’t  _ do  _ them without asking, can I?” Crowley mumbles into into Aziraphale’s hair, words jumbled and mostly incomprehensible. Aziraphale smiles. “Didn’t quite get that, dearest, you’ll have to speak up.”

Crowley huffs and hides his face in the curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder, voice louder but only just.

“There’s nothing you can do to me that I wouldn’t like, angel.” 

“Well then,” Aziraphale says, trailing his nose over Crowley’s jaw, “I suppose I’ll have to see if that’s true.”

Aziraphale is relentless when he wants something new. Crowley knows it, if the way he’s breathing is anything to go by, skin flushed hot as he clings.

“Don’t tease. Please, ‘zira,” he says.

He’s not sure what Crowley’s asking for, but they’re naked in an instant. Aziraphale didn’t intend to make their clothes disappear; he did very much want Crowley out of his, though, and isn’t entirely surprised that a miracle slipped out all on its own to make that happen. 

Miracles aren’t the only things slipping out all on their own. 

Aziraphale eases back, eyes roving over every inch of Crowley. The angles of his hip bones, his narrow thighs. He trails his palm up one of them, then lets the backs of his knuckles flit over Crowley’s ribs. Tremors run through Crowley as Aziraphale explores, hands fisted around the back of his neck, his head bowed. It’s easy to forget his own nudity with Crowley in his arms, falling to pieces when Aziraphale has barely touched him. He knows he’s soft around the middle, knows he’s not some ideal of supernatural perfection.

Knows Crowley wants him, and only him, so none of that matters.

Crowley’s skin is smooth, unmarred. All his scars are on the inside. Aziraphale wonders how many he put there,  _ we can’t, I won’t, my side won’t like it. _

He’s been on the wrong side since the garden, but it’s not too late to fix things. There is only Crowley’s side, now. 

He isn’t sure when he moved his hand from the insistent jut of Crowley’s arousal to grab his hip instead, but he rectifies the situation immediately, closing his fingers around him with a hum. It’s too much, evidently. 

The instant he’s back in Aziraphale’s palm, all of them skin on skin, Crowley’s wings erupt from his back. There’s a rush of air, and a flash of darkness. Crowley makes another of those sounds, bitten out through clenched teeth like he’s desperately trying to keep quiet.

Then they’re tucked around them both, thick black feathers pulled in close enough that Aziraphale feels them on his face. On his shoulders, and his arms. Crowley is everywhere, dark and soft and hiding them away from the world. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, sifting his fingers through inky feathers and making Crowley shake. “They’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he saw them when Crowley wasn’t sleeping, other than the brief seconds they spent on another plane in the midst of the looming apocalypse. He’d certainly never touch them while Crowley was asleep, and he hadn’t had a chance to appreciate them back then either, with Lucifer bearing down on the world.

Hasn’t ever had a chance to appreciate them, now that he thinks on it.

Aziraphale pets through Crowley’s wings with his free hand, rubbing feathers between his fingers, careful not to ruffle them. They sit stark against Crowley’s skin, and the red of his hair. His heart is beating fast, and he’s rolling his hips intermittently, pressing against Aziraphale’s hand. Beautiful. Breathtaking. 

It isn’t just Crowley’s wings.

“You’re gorgeous, darling,” Aziraphale says, tightening his fingers around Crowley and stroking slow. “Perfect, all of you.” Crowley ruts into the contact, clutching at Aziraphale’s hair and trembling at the praise. It’s a few long moments before he finds his voice, and even then, he doesn’t seem to find all of it.

“You’re… not so bad yourself,” he says. It’s breathless. 

Aziraphale smiles.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

Aziraphale kisses him again, cupping his cheek in one hand and working him lazily with the other. Crowley’s wings quiver, and Aziraphale swallows all the little sounds he makes. He can feel Crowley riling, his desperation becoming more and more evident as Aziraphale licks into his mouth, and circles a thumb over his crown.

Aziraphale is hard too, meeting Crowley’s movements, grinding delicately against him. He’s never experienced arousal this intensely before— his eyes have lingered on the curve of Crowley’s mouth over the years, or the long splay of his fingers, heat swelling in Aziraphale until he had to look away— but nothing so profound as what he’s feeling now. It’s impossible not to react with Crowley so keen, writhing in his lap and blatantly desirous. He’s even more alluring in disarray, hair messy around and blush creeping down his throat.

He’s helpless to resist. Aziraphale  _ wants,  _ in a way he’s never wanted before; wants like he didn’t know he was capable of wanting. Maybe he’s never been with anyone, but Aziraphale isn’t a fool. He’s read enough books, he knows how it goes. In theory, if not in practice.

Aziraphale has a feeling Crowley won’t mind the practicing bit.

He drops his hand from Crowley’s face and eases it up his thigh, pausing with his fingertips brushing the swell of Crowley’s ass. All the time they’ve known one another, and they’ve barely touched. Now Aziraphale is drunk on it, mouth wet and sliding against Crowley’s, feathers shifting to glance across his arms. He pulls back, putting some space between them so he can ask. Just once more. Just in case. 

Crowley leans back in, unwilling to give it up just yet. Aziraphale indulges him, but only for a moment. He gives Crowley a few chaste kisses, lipstick much worse for wear; it must be all over Aziraphale, smeared across his chin. Crowley’s panting, close enough that Aziraphale feels every rough breath on his face, unearthly yellow eyes watching his mouth.

“Something wrong?” Crowley asks, and brows furrowed with uncertainty. There’s a flash of raw vulnerability, like Crowley thinks he’s about to stop. Aziraphale shakes his head, because  _ Heavens,  _ no.

Everything is very right. 

“No, no, it’s just...I’d like to… to have you. All of you, if you’d allow me.” 

Crowley lets out a harsh breath. The wave of sheer adulation that washes over Aziraphale is sublime, Crowley laid bare for him again. There’s disbelief, too, a sense of unreality. Aziraphale understands the sentiment. It’s hard to believe they can have this; each other, always. Crowley lifts his hand to Aziraphale’s face, and drags a thumb across his bottom lip.

“Been wishing you would, love. Said it already, didn’t I? Anything you like.”

Aziraphale can think of a lot of things he’d like, but for now he just needs to be as close to Crowley as he can get. Against him, inside him, black wings on his skin and Crowley’s hands in his hair. There’s a lot of nuance that Aziraphale is doubtlessly missing— there are extra steps involved in coupling two bodies like theirs, he’s certain, but he doesn’t have the time or the patience to do things right. 

So he takes himself in hand, and lines himself up with Crowley, pressing in slow with the soft sigh of miracles that come easy. 

It’s overwhelming. More than Aziraphale expects; tighter, and hotter, and Aziraphale has to grit his teeth and pull another miracle to the surface to keep from finishing right then. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, running his palms up Crowley’s thighs, pausing to grab his hips in both hands, “you’re magnificent.”

If he’d thought Crowley was shivering before he’s positively quaking now. His jaw quivers, head thrown back and wings pulled in closer. The tips of his longest primary feathers brush over Aziraphale’s calves, and the tops of his feet. Crowley’s knees are splayed out around Aziraphale’s hips; his toes curl. His nails are leaving marks in Aziraphale’s skin.

_ “Angel,”  _ Crowley whispers. It isn’t like a prayer.

He hisses it like something profane.

Then Aziraphale tangles his fingers in Crowley’s hair and kisses him, and he doesn’t say anything at all.

Crowley lifts himself on unsteady legs, then sinks back down again, drawing a punched out moan from them both. Aziraphale rocks his hips, helping coax Crowley into a rhythm, both of them holding on too tight. Their teeth bump together, sometimes, and Aziraphale is far too breathless already.

He understands why humans sell their souls for this; or at least why they would, if they had Crowley. 

There’s no way for them to be pressed any closer together. Aziraphale is buried between his thighs, their mouths open against one another; it’s too much trouble to keep kissing, but Crowley breathes, and then Aziraphale breathes, and it’s more than enough. He’s slick under Aziraphale’s hands, sweating from the exertion as he smoothes them up Crowley’s back.

Aziraphale slips his fingers into the dense feathers at the base of Crowley’s wings, right where they meet his skin. Grinds his hips up— Crowley likes it when he does that. Clings, and keens, and Aziraphale does it again just to feel Crowley’s hands and hear his voice and feel him sway. 

Even miracles won’t be enough to keep Aziraphale from finishing, soon. Crowley is gorgeous, mouth swollen and lips parted, rocking in his lap with unabashed hunger. Aziraphale wraps a palm around him again, stroking once, twice. It’s all they need.

Crowley tucks his face into Aziraphale’s throat, and comes apart. It’s not the physical sensations that have Aziraphale following after.

Crowley loves him, and it’s so thick in Aziraphale’s lungs and warm on his skin and sweet in his mouth that Aziraphale spills into him with a moan.

_ “Oh,  _ darling,” he says, pushing up into Crowley as they both shudder through the feeling. There is so much more he needs to say, but none of it comes to him right then.

It takes a while for Crowley to still and settle against him. Aziraphale pets through his feathers, and threads fingers into his hair. After a few minutes Crowley’s breathing levels out, even if his heart is still pounding. Not calm, but calmer. Doing better now that Aziraphale is praising him.

He trembles less, at least.

That’s something.

There’s no mess to clean; Aziraphale doesn’t know which of them whisked it all away. They sit tangled up on Aziraphale’s couch, Crowley’s wings resting against his back, eyes drifting closed.

“Shall I take you to bed, then?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley snickers into his shoulder.

“Thought you’d already done that, angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep much, but he and Crowley stumble there anyway, crawling under the covers together. He keeps expecting Crowley’s wings to disappear— Aziraphale isn’t sure if he can’t dispel them, or just doesn’t want to bother. There’s no more fuzziness leftover from the wine. Just the lingering bliss of Crowley, etched into Aziraphale even deeper than before, buried behind his ribs.

It aches, but in a way Aziraphale doesn’t want to give up— the way Crowley has always made him ache.

“Love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley mumbles as he nuzzles closer. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, but it doesn’t seem that way.

Aziraphale has been feeling it for centuries.

His wings should be awkward, but he snuggles down into Aziraphale’s bed easy as breathing. One is tucked partially underneath him, the other fanned out over them both like a blanket. Aziraphale threads his fingers through the feathers, nosing into Crowley’s hair.

“I love you too, dearest. It took me a dreadfully long time to admit it, and I’m sorry for that. Forgive me, won’t you?” 

Crowley snorts. His words are slurred. Crowley already mostly sleeping.

“Look at you, asking a  _ demon  _ for forgiveness. Nothing to forgive, is there? We’re here, now.”

They are. 

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep much, but Crowley always has, and before long he’s drifted off. His head is on Aziraphale’s chest, one arm thrown around his stomach. 

Crowley isn’t shivering anymore but Aziraphale pulls the covers around them anyway; over Crowley’s body, tucked under his wings. 

There is no one waiting on them, no one watching. 

Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley’s head, and waits for the sun to rise.

-

It takes getting used to; takes practice.

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch anymore when Crowley takes his hand, even if they’re walking down the street together, or eating in a restaurant. He’s taken to sleeping more, when they are in bed, warm satisfaction and Crowley’s gentle reverence laid over Aziraphale like a second skin.

There’s a lot of ingrained hesitation to unlearn, but it’s simpler than Aziraphale anticipated. His instincts have always leaned towards Crowley, anyway. 

Now he just follows them. 

Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe, but he breathes easier, with Crowley close.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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